Жаклин Кэри - Banewreaker

The madlings wailed in chorus.

“Lady.” Vorax took a further step into the chamber, his sword rasping free of its scabbard. He met her oddly fearless gaze, and the blood seemed to sing in his veins, a high-pitched tone ringing in his head. He raised the blade, angling it for a solid blow, watching her expose the vulnerable column of her throat as her gaze followed the sword. His voice, when he spoke, sounded strange to his ears. “What is it you do in this place?”

“I might ask you the same,” she said calmly. “Do you desire a glimpse of what might have been , Lord Vorax? It is a small magic, one of the few which the Rivenlost are afforded, but I am willing to share it. All you must do is consent in your heart to know.”

He gritted his teeth. “That, I do not.”

“So.” She watched the candlelight reflecting on the edge of his sword. “I do not blame you, given what you have chosen. They do. It gives them comfort to know, poor broken creatures that they are. Is there harm in it, my Lord? Have I trespassed? I was brought to this place.”

“Who—?”

“Get out!” From the shadows a figure flung itself at him, wild-eyed, arms windmilling. Astonished, Vorax put up his sword, taking a step backward. He had a brief impression of sallow features beneath a mat of tangled hair. “Get out!” the madling shrilled, flailing at him. “ You brought her here, but this is our place! Ours! Get out!”

Catching her thin wrists in one gauntleted hand, he held her at bay. It took a moment to put a name to her, but he had seen her before; one of Tanaros’ favorites, or one who favored him. There was no telling, with madlings. “Meara,” he said. “What do you do here? Why? ”

She sagged in his grasp, then twisted to scowl at him through her dark, matted hair. “We batter our hearts, my lord, against the specter of what might have been. Don’t you see?” There were tears in her eyes, at odds with her expression. “I warned him, my lord,” she said. “I did. I tried to tell him. But he didn’t want to know, so he left, and Ushahin left, and we were left alone. Isn’t it clear?”

“No.” Vorax released his grasp, letting her crumple on the chamber floor. “No,” he said again, “it’s not.” He eyed them; Meara, her face averted, the lad Ludo, weeping. Others wept, too. Only the Lady Cerelinde stood, dry-eyed. “Listen,” he said to the madlings. “This place, all places, belong to Lord Satoris. What might have been … is not. Do you understand?”

Wails of assent arose in answer. One of the madlings was banging his head against an outcropping of rock, bloodying his forehead. “His blood!” he moaned. “His Lordship’s blood!”

“Aye.” Vorax gave them a hard look. “That which he shed to defend us all, and sheds every minute of every day in suffering. Do you disdain it?” They wailed denial. “Good,” he said. “Because Ushahin Dreamspinner, who is your master, returns anon. And, too, there will come Tanaros Blacksword, who makes his way home even now. Do you wish them to find you weeping over what might have been? ”

Perhaps it was the right thing to say; who could tell, with madlings? They dispersed, wailing, into the passageways of Darkhaven. Only Meara and the Ellyl woman were left, the one still huddled, the other still standing.

Vorax exhaled hard, dragging his arm across his brow, and sheathed his sword. “Meara,” he said conversationally, “I suggest you return the Lady to her chambers, and do not allow her to venture out again unless his Lordship summons her. If I find you here again, I will not hesitate to strike. And if you think my mercy is cruel, remember what Ushahin Dreamspinner might do to her. He has no love for her kind:”

“Aye, my lord:” Meara stood sullenly, plucking at Cerelinde’s sleeve.

The Lady of the Ellylon stood unmoving. “General Tanaros is coming?”

“Aye.”

There was a change; a subtle one. She did not move, and even her lids did not flicker. Yet beneath her fair skin, a faint blush arose, tinting her cheeks. Something knotted in Vorax’s belly, and he stepped into her space, crowding her with his bulk.

“Lady,” he said softly. “ Leave him be .”

Her chin rose a fraction. “You were the one to offer me Lord Satoris’ hospitality, my lord Glutton. Will you break it and be foresworn?”

“I would have slain you the instant Beshtanag fell.” He watched fear seep into her luminous gaze, and favored her with a grim smile. “Make no mistake, Lady. Neither hatred nor madness drives me, and I know where the margin of profit lies. If his Lordship heeded me, you would be dead.” He drew his sword a few inches clear of the scabbard, adding, “I may do it yet.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Her eyes blazed with terrible beauty. “Aracus—”

“Aracus!” Vorax laughed, shoving the hilt back in place. “Oh, Lady, whatever happens, we’ve ages of time here behind the walls of Darkhaven before the Son of Altorus becomes a problem. No, if you want to invoke a protector, I suggest you stick with his Lordship. And mind, if I find you plying Tanaros with Ellylon glamours and magics, I will see you dead.”

The Lady Cerelinde made no answer.

“Good.” Vorax nodded. “Get her out of here, Meara, and do not bring her again. Mind, I will be speaking to the Dreamspinner.”

He watched them go, the madling leading, tugging at the Ellyl’s sleeve. The sight did nothing to dispel the knotted, sinking feeling in his belly. It was providence that had made him choose the left-hand door, alerting him to untold danger. On the morrow he would assemble a patrol of his own men to scour the passages behind the walls, sealing off the madlings’ secret corridors, or as many as they could find. Something was wrong within the edifice of Darkhaven, crumbling even as the chasm had opened in the floor under his feet. He remembered the moon-garden by half-light, a shining figure beneath the stars, the heady scent of vulnus-blossom mingling with sulfur in the damp air, evoking painful memory.

Lord Vorax, what do you see?

Vorax shook his head and blew out the candle-butts. By the glimmer of the marrow-fire he pressed onward, leaving the chamber behind and picking his path through the tangled maze of narrow passages until he reached an egress. It was a sanctioned door, opening to his touch behind a niche in one of Darkhaven’s major hallways. One of the Havenguard snapped to attention as he emerged; a Mørkhar Fjel, axe springing into one hand, shield raising, dark bristles prickling erect. “Lord Vorax, sir!”

“At ease,” he sighed.

The Mørkhar stared straight ahead. Ignoring him, Vorax made his way down the towering halls, limping steadily back to his own quarters. It was a blessed relief to reach the tall ironwood doors, carved with the twin likenesses of a roaring Staccian bear, and a pair of his own Staccian guardsmen lounging against them. The fear-sweat had dried to a rime beneath his armor, and he was only tired, now. Beyond those doors lay comfort and easement. His belly rumbled at the thought of it.

“Let me in, Eadric.”

“Aye, sir!” The senior guardsman grinned, fumbling at his belt for a key. “Good ease to you, sir!”

The tall ironwood doors swung open, and Vorax entered his quarters. Within, it was another world, rich and luxuriant, far removed from everything in Darkhaven; the stark grandeur of its halls, the fearful heat of the Chamber of the Font, the scrabbling mysteries behind its walls. Lamplight warmed rich tapestries, gleamed upon gilded statuary, sparkled on jewel-encrusted surfaces. He had had ten mortal lifetimes to amass the treasures contained within his quarters. Somewhere, music was playing. It paused as he entered, then resumed, the harpist bowing her head over the ivory-inlaid curve of her instrument, fingers caressing the strings. Three Staccian handmaids rose to their feet, surrounding him with solicitous care, their deft fingers unbuckling his ceremonial armor.